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“The fuck is Joe?” someone asked.
Pivoting, I freed the silenced pistol from the waistband of my jeans. A man exited the card room, not bothering to glance in my direction. He made a beeline for the back door, most likely to check on the man in the alley. He would find him bloody and beaten as soon as he opened it.
I waited until he did so, watching as his shoulder tensed in shock. Then I pulled the trigger, the bullet hitting dead center in the back of his head. Three. The door shut with a slam, hiding his body from the rest, but it didn’t matter. It was time to make my presence known.
I entered the card room, immediately firing another round at the man nearest me. He’d been laughing at something one of the others had said. The bullet entered at his temple and he went limp, cards fluttering to the ground. Two.
“Royal flush.” I tsked, nudging the playing cards with the toe of my boot. “Pity.”
I turned to the last two men, the barrel of the silencer pointing at each in turn. They didn’t say anything, their faces ashen. Even though they were armed, their empty hands rose to the sides of their heads. They didn’t have time to pull out their weapons, and they knew it.
“The Babau,” I commanded, voice low. They withered under my glare. Or was it the name I spoke that they were afraid of?
The man on the right twitched, one of his hands dropping a couple inches.
I tilted my head, eyes narrowed on him. “Careful.”
“I’d rather the don kill me than the untouchable.” He snarled, reaching under the table for his gun.
The moniker was interesting, but not enough to make me hesitate. I pulled the trigger, silencing him, then aimed the gun at the man on the left. A rancid smell permeated the air. He’d wet himself. One.
“The Babau,” I repeated, detached.
“P-please,” the man begged, tears mixing with the perspiration on his cheeks. “I have a wife and daughter!”
I didn’t so much as flinch. “So did my brother.”
Zero.
* * * *
Emma
“I’m just sayin’, the next time ye decide to go an’ murder a dozen men, I want some kind o’ heads-up!”
Peter McKenzie paced around the warehouse in Soho, fuming. The rest of the men that had gathered at Scarlett’s Closet were there, as well as a few additions. Eoghan, Mick and Cathal stood by my side, their arms crossed. It wasn’t customary for non-heads of house to be at these meetings, I assumed, but rules were being broken by everyone.
“So would we,” Kieran snarked, casting a glare at the older Irishman. “Unfortunately, my brother doesn’t answer to anyone but himself.”
“And Emma…” Eoghan joked, trying to lighten the mood. Mick gave Eoghan a fierce look, shaking his head to quiet him.
“Nicoletti is grasping at straws,” Bryan Murray, the youngest of the group, added. “He can’t figure out if it was the Russians or us.”
“Good,” Kieran replied. “Let’s hope he takes his wrath out on the Russians.”
Jack’s little brother looked more stressed than I’d seen since Connor’s death. With Jack having gone dark, the mob was now his responsibility. He was just as ill-prepared as Jack had been, but Kieran was a different breed from his brother. He was irresponsible, yes, but he had a positive attitude. He was social and people liked him. Maybe he was better suited to the role. It wouldn’t be the first time the thought had crossed my mind.
I gripped the flash drive in the pocket of my jacket, twirling it around, studying its exact dimensions. I’d programmed a file from my laptop onto it after asking Eoghan to set up the camera. It wasn’t much, but it comforted me—reminded me to maintain focus.
“Hope isn’t going to keep us out o’ the ground,” McKenzie growled. “We need more men.”
“We’ve recruited eight from the homeland,” Cathal informed, “and two more will be arriving next week.”
“What homeland?” McKenzie scoffed, turning on Cathal. “Ye’re a fucking Scot. And from London to boot!”
“We are not arguing over bloodlines right now!” Kieran yelled, infuriated. Eoghan shuffled his feet beside me. I glanced at him, curious. “We need to find Jack before anyone else does.”
“Has the FBI said anything?” Michael Sweeney—the quieter one—asked.
